


Fallout 4 Kinktober 2017

by philos_manthanein



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Asphyxiation, Canon-Typical Violence, Creampie, Cuckolding, Edging, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Forniphilia, Gags, Guns, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Kinktober, Kinktober 2017, Knife Play, M/M, Minor Character Death, Muscles, Object Insertion, Orgasm Denial, Original Character Death(s), Pegging, Role Reversal, Size Difference, Spanking, Sthenolagnia, Tit-fucking, Watersports, roleplaying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philos_manthanein/pseuds/philos_manthanein
Summary: This fic will contain all of my Kinktober fills for Fallout 4! Chapter titles will contain the pairing and kink. Tags will be updated accordingly with each chapter.





	1. Spanking (Danse/MacCready)

**Author's Note:**

> Includes some bonus edging kink!

MacCready gets the distinct feeling that Danse is mad at him. Danse always seems mad at him, like he's irritated that MacCready even exists. That's not a new thing, he gets that reaction from different people all the time. The difference here is MacCready may have actually done something worth Danse's irritation. Maybe.

So he liberated a few small trinkets from some unsuspecting farmer. The schmucks around these backwaters hardly have enough caps to cover all the tedious and dangerous bullshit they ask them to do. Well, they ask Mika to do it. And then she “volunteers” her “friends” to “help”. The way MacCready sees it, he's just taking his fair cut of an already paltry reward for clearing raiders from the same junkyard for the fifth time.

“If they're so tired of living next to raiders maybe they oughta move outta raider territory!” MacCready says apropos of nothing, because Danse hasn't talked to him since they left the farm for Mika's swanky Diamond City house.

Again, he gets no reply; though Danse's blatant ignorance of him is probably response enough.

“Isn't this silent treatment deal a bit harsh over a couple of candle holders? They didn't even have candles!” MacCready tries again, then slumps back on the ratty sofa next to Danse when he gets no reply.

It's not that he thinks he did nothing wrong; wrongdoing is basically his whole gimmick out here. It's just that he'd prefer to make Danse snap and yell at him, to call him an “opportunist” or a “lowlife” or whatever. Anything would be preferable to the dull silence that has surrounded them since Mika left to get wasted at The Dugout. The house is too nice and big to feel this boring.

MacCready switches tactics. If he can't annoy the hell out of Danse, maybe he can seduce him, rather, seduce him _poorly_. Surprisingly, it's a skill that's worked before. He doesn't want to think about what that implies about Danse's taste, nor his own talents.

“Alright, I admit it. I've been so naughty~” MacCready leers at Danse in an atrocious way.

He tries to strike a suitable pose, like some old world pin-up model. The pose ends up looking more like an advertisement for a chiropractor from the odd angle his spine quirks. He winces and hunches over for a moment, silently noting how he's too young to ache like an old man like this. But the display was worth it, because Danse looks at him. So MacCready keeps going.

“So why dontcha discipline me?” MacCready smiles, though he's conscious about his busted teeth. “How'd they do that in the Brotherhood?”

“For stealing?” Danse asks, and it sounds rhetorical, but it doesn't matter because at least he's talking.

Danse stares off a moment. MacCready follows his gaze to his suit of power armor, where it stands in the corner of Mika's little workshop area.

“I'd probably make you return it and apologize.” Danse says finally.

“What, like I'm some kinda kid?” MacCready laughs at how naive and sort of cute that is.

“Then I'd lock you up.” Danse continues.

“Kinky.” MacCready teases, which makes Danse's gaze deaden on him.

“You'd be demoted too, though the way you are there would be no lower rank to demote you to. You'd still be cleaning bathrooms and washing dishes by the the time you were sixty.” Danse finishes explaining and he smirks just a bit, probably because of the disappointed look MacCready is giving him.

MacCready won't be deterred, however. He's determined to reel Danse in now that he has him hooked. He slides closer, until their sides are pressed together. Then he leers obnoxiously again, because it makes Danse's smirk twitch like he's fighting MacCready's backwards charms. MacCready's pulse flutters in his chest.

“So let's skip the boring Brotherhood-style discipline and get to the part where you spank me?” MacCready suggests.

Danse laughs at him. MacCready feels simultaneously relieved and offended.

“No.” Danse replies.

“Why not?!” MacCready feigns like his feelings are hurt but he knows he sounds ridiculous.

“Among other reasons, you'd enjoy it too much.”

“Well yeah, that's kind of the point, Danse.”

“I thought the point was to make you regret what you did?”

“I'm a man of few regrets.”

“Is that so?”

MacCready is ready to retort again when he feels Danse's hand against his back. Before he can react, Danse has easily shoved him over, and pulled him to his side. MacCready flails awkwardly, but Danse is strong and easily manipulates his torso and limbs until he's laying across Danse's lap. His heart is racing now. He didn't really expect Danse to go for it.

He feels Danse slide his hand broadly over his backside, over his pants. MacCready sort of wishes his clothes would just sort of dissolve away. Things went from boring to intense so suddenly his mind feels like it's reeling. He didn't really want Danse to spank him – it was supposed to be a joke – but now that it's possibly happening he doesn't want to make it stop.

Luckily he'd already taken off his overcoat and gear, so when Danse commits to this scenario he easily hikes up MacCready's shirt and shoves down his pants. MacCready moves as needed to make it easier. When he settles back across Danse's lap he can feel the material of Danse's uniform against his cock, which is already beginning to plump from the rush of anticipation alone. He's glad to be stretched across the couch, so he can hide his hot face in his arms against the cushion.

Again, Danse runs his hand over MacCready's rear. This time MacCready shivers a little from the feeling of rough against his skin.

“You really do enjoy it.” Danse comments; his voice is lower in tone. A familiar sound now, because they have no real relationship beyond these sorts of encounters.

“I think I might, yeah.” MacCready's voice isn't as strong. He can't tell if this is all awakening some weirdly repressed desire inside of him, or if he's just turned on because it's Danse doing it. Either way, he's all hot and excited and nervous.

And then Danse smacks him. It's hard and sharp; the sound echoes into his ears first, followed by the rushing sting across his skin. The force of it nudges his hips forward, making his dick and balls rub against the material of the couch and Danse's thigh. The sensation is already overpowering. MacCready feels himself growing steadily harder from it.

He can't recover – not that he _wants_ to - because Danse strikes him again. MacCready lets out a whining sort of gasp as the feeling of it rolls across his skin, up his spine. He wriggles, but Danse stills him with more hard smacks. Danse is so quiet and firm; intimidating in a brand new and incredibly erotic way. MacCready almost wants to roll over so he can see how intensely Danse must be staring at him. What he wants more, though, is to revel in the heat that is radiating from his reddening skin.

Danse must gather as much, because he unleashes more blows against MacCready's backside. Each one adds to the heat, turning his skin ever more sensitive. Every hit drives MacCready's hips forward, drawing his cock and tightening sack against the friction underneath him. He's so hard and indulgent. Soon he finds himself meeting Danse's hand eagerly and thrusting forward, drawing helpless and embarrassing noises that only seem to encourage Danse onward.

MacCready feels so close to cumming that he nearly screams when Danse suddenly stops and grabs him. He's thrown off of Danse's lap and finds himself on his back on the other ends of the couch. Danse pulls him down to lay flat, the old upholstery dragging against his raw ass, making it burn and tingle with pain. MacCready feels so angry and confused, until Danse is over him with one arm slung across the back of the couch to hold himself over MacCready.

Danse's other hand goes to MacCready's dick. It doesn't shut him up, but it does keep him from complaining. Instead all of his words melt into nonsense, moans and sobs of want. He's momentarily happy that the house has thick walls.

The friction isn't any less intense, because Danse's palms are dry and calloused. It hurts, but MacCready is discovering quickly that he enjoys this kind of pain. Danse strokes his cock and squeezes the head between his fingers. MacCready feels so close to cumming, but Danse stops again. MacCready nearly wails, thrusting his cock upward where Danse's hand should be. A few drops of cum loose from his red and swollen cockhead, but that's it. He's still unspent, hard, and aching.

He reaches down to grab himself, but Danse easily grabs his hands and wrenches them away, shoving them over his head and pinning them to the armrest. The movement brings Danse lower. MacCready can feel the heat of his body. He can see the intensity of his stare. He looks so dangerous. But all MacCready can think about is how badly he wants to cum.

“Danse! Please!” MacCready pleads, frustrated and miserable. He rolls his hips around hoping to find any sort of angle or touch so he can get off.

Danse's free hand strokes over him again. Again he pulls MacCready so close to release, only to pull away. MacCready feels his abdomen go so tight and he rocks his hips up violently to chase the touch Danse denies him. The tiny amount of cum he loses does nothing to lessen his thrumming discomfort.

“Do you feel regret now?” Danse asks.

“Oh you smug sonofa-” MacCready bites his lip hard and glares at Danse. He's so angry and fuming, breathing harshly through his nose.

“I could do this all day.” Danse says lowly. He seems legitimately amused; it's as scary as it is aggravating.

“Danse!” MacCready shouts. His voice hits an octave it normally doesn't, because he's suddenly stressed by the thought that Danse could really torture him until his dick fell off or something.

Danse begins pumping his cock again. The desire to cum is now tainted by the worry and dread that Danse will again pull away at the last second. For some horrible reason that almost makes MacCready feel hotter. The suspense makes heat coil tighter and tighter inside him.

This time Danse doesn't let go. MacCready cums hard, snapping his hips up to fuck into the dry and painful circle of Danse's hand. He shoots all over his own chest and stomach and it keeps coming. Danse keeps milking the cum out of him, until it spills all over his hand in slow and deeply relieving gushes.

MacCready feels heady; higher than any chem could get him. He's no longer angry or frustrated or anything, really. He feels completely blown out. He could lay there with his own seed soaking into his clothes and skin all night. It's not like Mika would care.

“Well,” He says minutes later though his voice is slow and ragged. “I think I've learned my lesson.”

“I doubt that.” Danse says. He sounds like he's in another part of the house, probably cleaning up, though MacCready is too blissed to open his eyes and look for him.

“Yeah I did!” He raises his voice a little. “I learned crime does pay!”

And once again MacCready found himself completely surrounded by silence.

 


	2. Watersports/Forniphilia (m!OC/Porter Gage)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter stars my male OC (not a Sole Survivor). His name is Kadir and he is terrible. [Here is some art of him for anyone who is interested in what he looks like.](http://a-doomed-user.tumblr.com/image/165978223854)

Kadir kicked in the bathroom door, sending it swinging inward to bounce off the inner wall. He probably woke up all the ghouls and raiders within earshot. Fuck it. He had to piss. The toilets likely didn't work. He wasn't beyond going anywhere he pleased, either. No, the real reason he chose an actual bathroom this time was to indulge in a whim.

Gage followed after him. A good guy, that Porter Gage. Always following. Always putting up with Kadir's fantastically violent and subversive tastes. He should really get a promotion, Kadir thought.

He kneed open the rusty toilet stall doors, though that was for show. Regardless of the amount of johns or urinals around, he didn't plan to use them. (In fact, the lack of urinals made him think he'd chosen a women's restroom. Whoops.) Gage began muttering about “whatever crazy shit” Kadir was up to. Kadir shut him up swiftly.

“Hey, get on your knees.” He said.

“What?” Gage asked, immediately suspicious because Kadir was always up to something suspicious.

“I'm promoting you,” Kadir explained, “To toilet.”

Gage groaned in irritation, rubbing at his temple. “Really man? Cut the bullshit and go piss in the corner.”

“No, I don't wanna.” Kadir huffed, then whined, “Porteeeeer.”

Kadir stepped forward and grabbed Gage by the shoulders. He shoved the other man down until he dropped to his knees as requested. Kadir was built strong, sure, but Gage was an easy match to him. He could fight back. He could very likely kill Kadir if he wanted to. But Gage also thrilled - just a little bit - at getting bossed around by someone so unpredictable.

Kadir was not a good leader, in fact he's a terrible Overboss. Which was fine, for Gage's needs. But he didn't mind letting the illusion of dominance go to Kadir's head; it got some exciting results.

Keeping a hand on Gage's shoulder, Kadir used the other to pull open his own belt. The buckle clanked as it was jostled around. The room felt suddenly silent, though it was really full of the sound of the two men breathing and Kadir working open his jeans.

Yeah, he wanted to piss all over Gage. For no reason, other than he had the impulsive thought of it as soon as he realized he had to pee. That's all the motivation he really needed.

Pulling out his dick, Kadir realized that this situation was sort of erotic too. He looked down at Gage, who was annoyed but still oddly compliant, and quiet. Gage was nearly expectant, and told Kadir to get it over with. Less begrudging than he should have been, maybe a little excited. It was hard to tell just what aspect of the moment was the most tantalizing.

“You're so fucked up.” Kadir grinned, leaving his grip on the raider's shoulder to pat Gage's cheek patronizingly. He mostly ended up patting Gage's stupid eye patch anyway.

Then Kadir started to go. The stream missed for a second, dribbling onto Gage's lap rather than his face, where Kadir wanted it to go. So he stepped forward, planting his feet on either side of Gage's legs. Gage winced, shutting his eyes tight. It was a very uncomfortable sensation as Kadir's hot piss fell between his eyes and rolled down his nose, cheeks and lips. The visible discomfort only made Kadir's chest swell with warmth and admiration. Gage still wasn't resisting. Kadir felt his cock getting hard in his palm.

“Open up your mouth.” Kadir said, licking his lips as Gage cringed.

But Gage obeyed. The moment his lips parted Kadir aimed his stream into it. He bit his lip when Gage made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. But he still let Kadir fill it, until his piss leaked from the corners of Gage's mouth. He sort of wished he could keep going, imagining what it would be like to make Gage drown in it.

As soon as Kadir stopped, Gage lurched forward to spit it all out. He felt gross and hot. His stomach turned from the taste of it, but he didn't vomit. Disgusting as it was, Gage couldn't resist feeling excited, too. Knowing how horrified most people would be by this display served to wean away the displeasure.

“Hey, new promotion,” Said Kadir, “Toilet paper.”

Gage glared up at him, though that was just for show. He was already hard, his cock pressing tight in his wet pants. He straightened his spine and craned his neck enough to be level with Kadir's cock. His pulse thrummed hotly when he saw how hard it was now. Gage leaned forward and quickly licked up the stray drops of piss from Kadir's cockhead and shaft.

He didn't stop once the fluid was cleared away. After all, he was there anyway, it would be awfully rude to leave Kadir hanging. Chances were Kadir would volunteer Gage to suck his cock anyway.

Once Gage had Kadir's cock in his mouth he only had a brief chance to suck him at his own speed. Kadir took control fast, gripping either side of Gage's head tight and thrusting deep and fast into his throat. Gage tensed and gagged, then fell loose. Relaxing his muscles made it easier to time his breathing, and fight the reflex to bite down. Kadir would probably enjoy that, however. A thought to hold on to for later.

Soon Kadir was giving a final slam forward, holding Gage tight so his cock could pump cum into his throat. Gage felt his nose press tight to Kadir's pelvis, his thick pubic hair invading his nostrils along with the unclean scent of Kadir's body. The first sign Gage ever gave of resistance came when he started to feel suffocated. Kadir decided to be merciful and pulled out. Gage gasped and choked, doubling over again to cough out the cum that stuck to the back of his tongue.

“Fuck,” Gage gasped, “I think I came in my pants.”

“Nice.” Kadir grinned, then stepped around Gage to head for the door. His whim was thoroughly satisfied. Now he wanted to get back to killing things.

“Wait a goddamn second, Jesus Christ.” Gage called after him. He was still recovering and not at all looking forward to walking around covered in Kadir's piss and his own cum.

“Hey!” Kadir snapped, though his tone was playful. “No need to get all pissy~”

 


	3. Sthenolagnia (Danse/Maxson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter turned out a little depressing. Whoopsie doodle!

Hours are agonizing when there is nothing to do. Though, really, Danse has plenty to do. He has much to think about, even if he doesn't want to. He tries to drink the oppressive thoughts away, but the alcohol only makes it worse. Now he's numbed the physical pains he suffered running from his brothers and sisters, so there's nothing else left to hold his attention.

They'll find him soon, he thinks. He wonders who will come after him. Who would Arthur trust to hunt down the man that had once been honored with that very faith? Danse wonders if Arthur himself would tear through the wasteland to wring the not-life out of him. It's a strange sort of wishful thinking.

And now Danse finds his thoughts shifting completely to Arthur. His younger, but Elder. (Or is he?) It doesn't feel right to call him “his” anymore. Danse doesn't have the right to be anything to Arthur, besides dead. He's wondered a lot about which would be more honorable, to kill himself or await his execution. His honor means little now, especially after running away in the first place.

He imagines if Arthur came for him, and what Arthur would do to him once found. If they would talk at all; if Danse would even have the chance to speak. If he did, what would he say? Nothing.

He thinks about times before, when things were actually going well. It was only a matter of days, but it feels so distant; the last time he heard Arthur's voice. It feels wrong to covet that, just as it feels wrong to think of the Elder so personally.

And he thinks about how he earned the permission to speak - so casually – Arthur's first name. In private quarters, in quiet tones, but with desperate hands and ragged breaths. Danse remembers what it felt like to pretend he was special in those moments, even if he knew better. Knowing what he is now, it's sickening that he'd touched and tainted Arthur's skin with his own inhuman flesh.

Danse lays back on his cot in his bunker, like he has done for so many of these agonizing hours. Holding his hands up, he flexes his fingers and looks over every wrinkle and fold in the skin. As if he could somehow finally notice a seam somewhere that should have given him away. There's nothing; the perfection of his own body makes him angry.

No, he's not perfect at all. He's not real. He's not something to be admired; not in the way that Arthur is. Arthur is everything everyone in the Brotherhood strives to be. Danse used to count himself extremely lucky that he could be so intimate with even a part of what makes Arthur so wholly perfect.

Danse closes his eyes. He remembers the feeling of Arthur's skin against his palms. How his arms curved with muscle and biceps flexed with every movement he made. Danse would slide his hand along every plane, up over Arthur's shoulders and back. It was hypnotic, almost, feeling the way Arthur's muscles would move under his skin; to see how his body worked so harmoniously to make him so powerful.

He remembers tracing the taut lines of Arthur's neck to his collar and down to his sternum, where his chest formed defined and hard pectorals. His hands and fingers would stretch flat to rub over them, greedily enjoying the sensation of skin and the dark, wiry hair that trailed along nearly every part of Arthur's body. Arthur was so young, but he was a man, and one so few got to admire so closely.

Danse would press his lips against those strong curves as he descended; in this act he never objected to - or even thought twice about - being the submissive party. He'd follow the swollen lines of Arthur's abdomen with his mouth. Indulgently, he would lick or suck on each warm, squared ridge. He liked how the muscles moved against his lips when Arthur breathed and spoke. He misses the sounds Arthur would make when Danse was doing well. And he misses how Arthur would quickly correct him with a pull of his hair or a bruising shove when he wasn't.

Lowering his hands to his sides, Danse thinks about how he would touch Arthur's thighs while he was on his knees between them. They'd felt so sturdy. He was so different from other Elders, not that Danse had ever been so intimate with anyone else. But the others had seemed so frail for men meant to be ultimate role models.

Not Arthur. Arthur stood on legs wrapped tight and powerful, with the pale white scars to prove he had never stood behind his title to avoid battle. Danse would brush his fingers over them, feeling them warp and shift over the muscle, and he would think about all the training and combat Arthur had gone through in his short 20 years of life. A whole life in service to the Brotherhood and his country. Danse doesn't even know his own real age.

Danse opens his eyes and they sting and they are wet. He's also uncomfortable, because his penis is erect from the memories and it pushes tight within his uniform. He can't even consider touching himself for relief, disgusted with himself as he is. Soon he won't have these unworthy memories anymore. Soon he'll be nothing, not even a footnote in the Scribes' notes. Soon the agonizing hours will end.

Outside, the turrets begin to fire.

 


	4. Knife Play (Maxson/Danse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to the previous chapter. Again, this one turned out a bit depressing! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (It's also aligned more with "goretober" than "kinktober" but hey, sometimes those lines are blurred right?!)

All of Maxson’s plans are falling apart. 

He should be used to the way things can change in an instant.. It’s happened enough times, between the Capital and Commonwealth, that even the Brotherhood’s most carefully planned operations go awry. Prepare for the worst, they always say. But sometimes the worst is something completely out of the scope of your imagination.

Danse is the worst by far.

Danse acts so humbled now, on his knees in this once-abandoned outpost. He looks up at Maxson with his perfectly crafted synthetic eyes, all remorseful. It makes Maxson’s stomach twist with disgust, that these machines can cry like humans do. But that’s what they’re made for, isn’t it? To blend in so they can take over his race’s already unsure spot in the world.

“Arthur-” Danse begins to say, but Maxson is so enraged by the sound of his name that he forcefully slams the hilt of his combat knife against Danse’s mouth.

Danse winces. Blood drips from his lips. That only fuels Maxson’s anger and hatred more. Danse has no right to bleed or feel pain, but since he can Maxson is going to make him regret every phony nerve the Institute put inside his plastic skin.

Maxson had been so pleased with the bit of espionage Danse’s little protege had pulled off inside the Institute. Then, when the information was analyzed and presented to him, he was infuriated. That wasn’t the entirety of his emotions, he could never really label all of what he felt in that moment. It was more than betrayal or sorrow or anger. It was a burning acid tearing through his veins and pooling in his guts.

The fact that Danse ran away only made it worse. It made Maxson question every ounce of trust he’d ever put in the man. He began to second-guess everyone, because they had passed the tests just as Danse had.

He couldn’t let anyone else do this.

And he wanted to see Danse for himself, one last time. To see if he really was so foolish to have missed even the slightest sign that could have given the synth away. Standing above him now, with his knife pressed tight to Danse’s jaw, Maxson is frustrated that he sees no flaw. 

Well, if he can’t see the seams, he can make them himself.

Maxson presses down against Danse’s fake skin until he can feel it give and pop. Danse seethes as Maxson pulls the edge through, slicing and splitting open the man-made flesh all along his jaw to his chin. 

The new wound erupts with a steady river of blood. Real blood too, from the sight and smell of it. Maxson tastes the tip of the knife to find it real in that sense too. The acidic fire burns in his chest.

“How many of us did they kill to create you.” Maxson says, not a question because he doesn’t expect an answer.

He doesn’t really care for how or why the Institute is doing what it does. He only wants to put an end to it, so abominations like Danse can cease to exist. 

“Kill me.” Danse replies, hanging his head. “Please, I don’t deserve to live.”

“You’re damn right you don’t, synth.” Maxson growls at the machine.

He hates the way his voice shakes on the last word. 

Their positions are such a dark perversion of other moments they’ve shared. It fills Maxson with revulsion to think that he’d let a synth become so close to him. That it had touched him in such an intimate mockery of human affection. That he’d kissed it and enjoyed its taste; even in that minute detail Danse was so perfect. 

Maxson fights the urge to vomit.

He grabs the synth by its chin and forces it to raise its head. He presses his blade to its perfectly manufactured mouth. He wants to cut it all out; to destroy all the bits and pieces of Danse he’d once admired. 

Maxson cuts into Danse’s lips and Danse lets his pain be known, though he doesn’t try to move away. His shouting only makes the cut go deeper. Maxson hates how human the agony sounds, so he pulls the knife away and instead slams a palm down over Danse’s mouth. 

Maxson’s heart is racing. His muscles are tense and aching as he fights to control the shaking in his limbs. He wants Danse to hurt and suffer, but he can’t help the lingering reactions. Merely days ago he’d have killed anyone who had done this very thing to Danse without a thought. Now both sides of his hand are growing wet with Danse’s not-blood and not-tears.

“Why’d it have to be you.” Maxson says but doesn’t ask.

Of course it would have to be Danse; he’s the only one that could ever make Maxson hesitate.

Maxson circles behind Danse, though he doesn’t remove his grip over Danse’s mouth. There was so much more Maxson wanted to do. When he first arrived - when he had to dismantle the turrets Danse had set upon him - Maxson had been so fueled by rage he wanted to tear Danse apart to his mechanical heart.

Now he just wants it to be over.

From behind Danse, Maxson places the blade against Danse’s throat. He uses the hand gripped over Danse’s mouth to pull Danse’s head back, exposing more of his neck. Maxson looks down silently at Danse. Danse looks back, for a moment, then shuts his eyes. Accepting. 

If Danse were a real soldier, Maxson would feel proud.

Maxson makes a final adjustment to his grip.

“For the Brotherhood.” He says, quietly.


	5. Cuckolding (Sturges/Jun)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like reverse cuckolding or something... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s wrong. Sturges tells himself over and over how wrong it is. But that doesn’t make him stop. It doesn’t make Jun stop either.

Maybe the wrongness of it is what makes it so addicting.

This time they’re outside of Sanctuary, though not far. They found some derelict cabin by the river. It serves as a private retreat as the settlement grows. There are too many people around for them to keep the affair quiet.

When it comes to sex, Jun is surprisingly anything but quiet.

The mattress is decaying and small. Sturges has to hold himself completely over Jun as they kiss and strip. Jun is the more demanding one this time, pushing and pulling at Sturges’ clothes. Few words are exchanged here. Words only open the doors for guilt and hesitation.

They both think that Marcy knows. She has to suspect something, at least. Jun was never great at hunting, so why would he suddenly want to help Sturges with it? She’s made passive-aggressive remarks about how Jun is suddenly so motivated to work; her tone stings with hurt.

It’s wrong, but they can’t stop. Sturges cares about Jun; has cared about him since they were all living peacefully in Quincy. He’s cared about Jun in ways a man shouldn’t care about a married man. Jun cares about Sturges, because he was kind to him and listened. Sturges was the only thing keeping a rope from slipping around his neck.

They can’t admit that they’re in love, but maybe the fit of their bodies together is admittance enough.

Sturges sinks into Jun slow and steady. He presses his forehead to Jun’s and Jun cups his hands to either side of Sturges’ face. If they close their eyes they can imagine they’re not doing anything wrong. 

Sturges rocks his hips, driving his cock fully into Jun before pulling back and thrusting forward again. The slow pace doesn’t last. Soon he has a bruising grip under Jun’s knees as he fucks him. Jun’s usually timid voice becomes a shout. He wraps his arms across Sturges’ back so he can bite into his skin and try to muffle the sound.

Everything they’re doing is dangerous.

Jun is so easily overstimulated when he’s with Sturges. It’s like going from a flatline to being electrocuted back to life. He peaks first, and fast, not even touching himself before ejaculating between them. He’s burning with unnamed sensations. He tells Sturges not to stop, because even though he came he still wants more. 

Not that Sturges needs to be told. He can hold out longer, probably as long as he wants to. And he does want to, so he can keep drawing out the erotic - even adorable - noises that Jun makes as he rides out his pleasure. Sturges ducks down to kiss at Jun’s neck, wanting so much to leave marks on him. It’s easier for Sturges to explain away the soft bruises and scratches Jun leaves on him. 

Still, there’s a dark want inside him to turn Jun’s skin red and purple, so Marcy can know Jun is still capable of finding his own happiness.

Sturges pulls back and lets his cum shoot across Jun’s soft stomach. Jun’s heart jumps excitedly, knowing their seed is intermingling on his skin. It’s horrid and disgusting, and he enjoys it because he knows he’s horrid and disgusting too. He threads his fingers through Sturges’ hair and pulls him into a deep and happy kiss.

It’s wrong and it’s perfect. 


	6. Size Difference (Deacon/MacCready)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also some hatesex because this is my fave hatesex ship.

MacCready had Deacon pressed against some rusted clothes dryers in a long-abandoned laundromat. The building was usually a safe spot, one of many the Railroad took care of for their charges. Today the two men were supposed to use it to catch some sleep before heading out to meet their plucky “leader”.

They both knew that wasn’t going to happen, even as they mutually agreed to the plan.

Deacon wouldn’t stop digging at MacCready. He would pick out a handful of smug observations about the mercenary; little facts he’d gathered for the sole purpose of riling MacCready up. The more MacCready tried to ignore them or snap out his own insults, the more self-satisfied Deacon became.

It’s a battle MacCready will almost always lose, just like a test of strength.

Deacon easily countered MacCready’s enraged pin, ducking out of it then shoving the thinner man back. MacCready’s back bounced painfully off the row of rickety washers behind him. These were not stacked as the dryers were. MacCready gripped the edge of one behind. He planned to use it as leverage so he could kick Deacon - preferably in the crotch - but Deacon grabbed his legs. Deacon rushed forward, making MacCready lift and fall back on top of one of the washers. MacCready managed to knee Deacon sharply across his cheek and nose. But Deacon regained his grip on MacCready’s ankles and forcibly planted his feet against the metal top.

Deacon wasn’t exactly a strong guy, not like some of the others who worked harder or had more physical training. But he was still stronger than MacCready; that’s all that really mattered. MacCready had never been more than scrawny. It didn’t take much to gain an advantage over him, but Deacon always treated it as if he’d taken down something worthwhile.

At least MacCready made Deacon’s eyes water from the hit to his nose. He counted that as a personal victory.

Deacon released MacCready’s ankles. MacCready considered using his freedom to stomp his boot right in Deacon’s face; maybe he could bust his nose all the way this time. But Deacon’s hands began to slide up MacCready’s inner thighs, warmly palming over the dirty fabric. It was a silent question that asked if they should change the nature of this fight.

Something warm twisted in MacCready’s guts. His cock already began to swell under Deacon’s touch. His body was answering where his words failed to. Maybe that was better, MacCready was too used to using his words to deceive. Not that Deacon would believe anything he said otherwise; you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.

They were both so full of themselves, and full of each other. They both hated how they both knew it too.

Deacon wasn’t gentle or kind about the way he removed MacCready’s pants. He became agitated when they bunched around MacCready’s boots, and that was his own damn fault. Only bothering with removing one side fully, he let MacCready’s pants hang from the other leg. MacCready didn’t help much, but he wasn’t actively trying to hinder Deacons’ efforts this time either. He felt Deacon should be thankful for that.

And Deacon was a little pleased. Not for the mercy of MacCready’s decision to not be a complete asshole this time, but more for the delightful sight of MacCready reaching down between his legs to stroke his cock while he waited for Deacon. MacCready may not beat him in a fistfight or a shouting match, but the one unarguable advantage he did have was in his hand at the moment.

“Holy Christ, you’re huge.” Deacon breathed, even though it was not the first time he’d seen MacCready’s generous size.

“Yeah.” MacCready grinned. He was always tickled to have his cock praised; he knew well it was longer and thicker than Deacon’s.

For a moment Deacon considered suggesting they switch positions. He wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed having MacCready’s big dick sunk into him; that when it feels like it’s going to split him apart it makes him cum harder. But that was probably already obvious anyway.

But this time Deacon stayed on course. He knew his cock was more average, maybe even below average? He wasn’t really embarrassed by that. Especially not when it afforded himself a bit of revenge by giving MacCready as little pleasure as possible.

Then again, maybe MacCready got off on being fucked by a dick he knew was woefully incomparable to his own.

Deacon used his spit in lieu of lubricant. When he was ready, he pulled MacCready forward. He urged the thinner man to slide off the washer a bit; to instead wrap his legs and arms around deacon while he pressed MacCready’s lower back against it. Deacon grasped MacCready’s ass tight. He pulled the cheeks apart a bit so he could shove the thin curve of his cock up into him. It didn’t take much to have MacCready fully on him.

Deacon’s arm muscles flexed to hold MacCready up as he fucked into him. He was not wholly strong and MacCready was not wholly weak; somewhere in the middle of that disparity they managed to find some sort of balance.

MacCready’s face was close to Deacon’s. Their noses bumped and brushed when Deacon thrust up and pulled down. Deacon’s breath caught in his throat when he thought MacCready was going to kiss him. Instead, MacCready turned his head and buried his face into one of the arms he’d wrapped around Deacon’s shoulders.

Neither of them dwelled on the disappointment of that moment. It was just sex; just something to do when they weren’t trying to hurt each other.

Deacon came first, as he usually does. He pulled out and let his cock push against MacCready’s tight and swollen sack. His cum shot over MacCready’s knuckles, because he’d been stroking himself.

MacCready swiped up some of Deacon’s ejaculate and used it to slick his fingers and shaft. It was enough to ease the friction and draw out his own orgasm. He came in three bursts, milking his cock between them and making a mess of their cocks and legs and shirts.

Lifting MacCready back upwards, Deacon set him back on top of the washer. He cursed, complaining that he should have just stripped completely. Then he joked about how they were in a laundromat yet had to go around in gross, dirty clothing.

“Says you,” MacCready said as he pulled off his top and used it to clean himself up, “I actually brought backups.”

“What about me?” Deacon asked.

“Here, you can have this one.” MacCready grinned and tossed his soiled shirt at Deacon.

Deacon side stepped and let the rag fall to the floor. MacCready barely had time to pull his pants back up before Deacon was lunging for his travel pack, threatening to take all the carefully-packed clothing and provisions MacCready had stowed away.

They fought again. They ended up sprawled on the cracked, ancient linoleum floor with even more bruises and scrapes than they’d acquired on their latest trek through the wastes. And they fucked again, because fucking was the only way they could keep from killing each other in earnest.

They didn't sleep at all.


	7. Creampie (M!OC/Preston)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I "borrowed" genkino's SoSu/OC Shannon for this one because I ship him and Preston like a pirate looking for booty.

It’s nearly midnight when Preston caves to the need for rest. He wanted to make it to the next settlement, but he and Shannon got a late start. They could make it by daybreak but these broken cities were always crawling with monsters and light wasn’t on their side. So they duck into some long-forgotten shop, if not for sleep then at least to relax.

The store was a bakery once. Preston can tell from the faded advertisements for bread and cakes and pies. He imagines what it must have looked like two hundred years ago; the smells and tastes of fresh, unmutated fruits and grains. History books say the US had a surplus of food sometimes. Preston hopes they can achieve that again.

After confirming the shop is secure, Preston finally shrugs off his laser musket and his duster, even laying his hat on top of the pile. He keeps the weapon close by, because it pays to be just a tad paranoid. With Shannon around he worries a little less than before, though. 

He loves Shannon more than he’s loved anything, and that’s as scary as it is exciting.

Preston pushes himself up to sit on the counter at the center of the shop; there’s nothing else on top of it save for a busted cash register. He stretches his arms and legs, watching Shannon set down his heavier equipment and supplies. 

Even without his gear Shannon is an intimidating guy. Preston is glad to be on the good side of a guy that can rip apart super mutants with his bare hands. He shamelessly lets his gaze linger as Shannon pulls off his overcoat. Shannon catches him staring and Preston grins even though he’s a little embarrassed. 

After all, it’s not like he has to hide his affection anymore.

Shannon certainly doesn’t hide his own.

In a few short strides, Shannon is at the counter shoving his body between Preston’s dangling legs. He kisses Preston, slow and deep, as his fingers slide gently over the sides of Preston’s neck. Preston makes a happy sound, feeling whatever remaining tension he held in his shoulders melt away.

The kisses and touches quickly grow more feverish. It hasn’t been all that long since they last had sex, but that doesn’t make them want for each other any less. Perhaps they’re still in their “honeymoon” phase, but it’s felt this way since they first met. When they’re alone Preston can’t help but want to tear off all of Shannon’s clothes. The only difference now is he actually can, so he does.

Preston unfastens Shannon’s belt and jeans as they kiss. He shoves the material of the jeans and underwear down as far as he can reach. It’s enough to get to Shannon’s cock. Preston takes it into his palm, feeling its warm weight and responsiveness to his touch. He grins against Shannon’s lips when the man groans. Preston begins stroking it with long and attentive pulls as it steadily grows more erect.

Shannon pulls off Preston’s boots and pants. He takes the courtesy to lay them on the counter next to Preston instead of throwing them on the floor. Neither of them bother to remove their shirts, foregoing the hassle of having to put them back on later. Shannon brushes his fingers over Preston’s cock too, though it doesn’t need nearly as much coaxing. Preston’s not ashamed to admit he’s been fully hard since Shannon started kissing him.

Soon, Shannon has Preston laying back on his elbows since the counter is too thin to lay flat. Preston doesn’t mind, because the position allows him to watch as Shannon smears some lubricant over his cock and between Preston’s legs. It’s a little funny to think that Shannon carries that sort of seedy supply with him whenever he’s with Preston, but it’s also welcoming in moments like this.

When he’s ready, Shannon grabs Preston’s legs, yanking him forward so his ass hangs off the edge of the counter. The new position allows Preston to lay flatter. Still, he stays propped up a bit longer, because he wants to watch Shannon’s cock enter him.

Even after all this time the tight stretch burns as Shannon guides his cock into Preston’s ass. His cock is thick and long with a slight upward curve. Preston is so intimately familiar with it he thinks he could trace it entirely from memory. It doesn’t hurt as much as the first time, though; Shannon is careful and Preston is accommodating.

When they fuck in earnest it quickly evolves from slow and gentle to something more carnal. Shannon indulges himself in Preston’s body, because Preston allows him to. Preston wants him to. Preston loves the feeling of letting go and letting Shannon have complete claim to him. He trusts Shannon would always think of his needs too.

So far, so good.

Preston ends up clinging to Shannon’s broad and strong body. He feels Shannon’s sweat rolling onto his own skin. There is hardly any light, and that’s a shame because Preston wants to see all that he can. He feels like his nerves are arcing with electrical fire. He wonders why being fucked by Shannon always feels so intense. He hopes it always does.

Shannon’s body goes rigid when he comes, save for the mechanical pumping of his hips as he empties his cock deep inside Preston. He sounds like an animal. His growling and grunting sends hot waves rolling through Preston’s body. 

After the first moments of Shannon’s orgasm pass, Preston hears something else. It’s muffled, because Shannon’s face is pressed against Preston’s neck. Still, he can feel the movement of Shannon’s lips and the heat of his breath. Shannon is laughing. The absurdity of it makes Preston laugh too.

“What?” Preston asks.

“Was just thinking…” Shannon lifts his head, his voice sounds lighter than usual. “I just made a Boston Cream Pie.”

Preston blinks in confusion. Then he remembers: They’re in a bakery. Right.

“Damn it, Shannon.” Preston snorts, but he laughs too and pulls Shannon even closer. “I love you.”


	8. Roleplaying (F!SoSu/Cait)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not your typical kind of erotic roleplaying.

The force that Mika uses to slam the cardboard box down on the table makes Cait think whatever is contained within is something special. Maybe it’s some sort of super weapon, or plans for taking down the Institute, or a bottle of pristine whiskey. Cait is almost excited for what wonders it contains, until Mika slides the cover off of it.

Inside there is paper. A lot of little pieces of paper, a large piece of paper, and several small plastic trinkets. Some of the plastic bits look like dice, but they’re malformed and oddly numbered. It’s obviously nothing useful, so why is Mika so goddamn happy about it?

“I found it!” Mika grins broadly, her perfect 200 year-old smile glinting in the candlelight.

“What is ‘it’?” Cait asks doubtfully.

“The Adventures of the Dungeon Mistress!” Mika chirps as if Cait should be just as thrilled.

“Which is?...” Cait sighs already frustrated by Mika’s sunny mood.

“Only the best tabletop RPG of 2075, God!” Mika eagerly begins looking through what Cait has already deemed to be garbage, cooing over each little bauble like it’s priceless. 

The only kind of “RPG” Cait is familiar with are the kinds asshole Gunners fire at them from broken highways. None of this junk looks like it could murder - or even incapacitate - a single radroach. Cait has already lost what little interest she has, so she decides it’s time to go to bed.

“Oh no you don’t.” Mika says as she grabs Cait by the wrist and drags her back down into her seat. “I need someone else for my party!”

“What kinda party can ya possibly have with this load?” Cait complains.

“An  _ adventure,  _ Cait.” Mika beams again and she holds up one of the plastic figurines. “Wanna be an elf?”

“No.” Cait replies firmly.

“Come on,” Mika pleads, “I haven’t played since college. I promise it’s fun! And I even know ways to make it… spicy.”

Now that has Cait’s attention. Shit as this little game is - if that’s what it is - she is always ready to go for some heavy petting with her far-too-bubbly personal anachronism. 

“Go on.” Cait says with a smirk.

“Well first you have to fill out your character sheet.”

“My what?”

Mika slaps down a page the length of her forearm on the table in front of Cait. She tosses a short pencil on top of it, then sets down a handful of those oddly-shaped dice next to it.

“And don’t forget to roll your stats and attributes!”

“My what?”

“Do you know what class you want to be? I think I’m gonna be a bard!” Mika is already scribbling on her own sheet.

“I wanna be the Dungeon Mistress.” Cait replies, not touching her own items because she has no idea what Mika is asking her to do.

“But that’s the big bad! We’re supposed to be the heroes.” Mika pouts.

“How about I be the baddie and you be the cute little, whats-it, bard? I keep you in my dungeon and we have lotsa spicy adventures, yeah?” Cait grins.

Mika’s face flushes red easily and she shifts in her seat. “But, my stats…”

Cait picks up her random dice, gives them a shake, then lets them clatter across the table.

“Oh, lookit that. I rolled the ‘get Mika naked and in bed’ stat. I win!”

“That’s not how the game really works-”

“I. Win. Mika.” Cait says as she stands up forcefully. “Best listen to your Dungeon Mistress, if you know what’s good for you.”

Cait beckons Mika with a finger as she walks backwards toward their shared bedroom. Mika gave a longing glance down at her character sheet, then roughly shoves it aside and bounds after Cait. 

Later, as Mika lays strapped to the metal headboard of the bed, Cait thinks of how this was a much better type of play than some musty old board game. She hammers her fingers hard and fast into Mika, making her writhe and shout out cute and vulgar phrases. 

Mika pulls at the binds as her back arches. She's in throe after throe of ecstasy as Cait draws one orgasm after another from her. Cait’s fingers and palm are so slick with wet that it begins to dampen the sheets underneath them. Cait can't stop herself from switching hands so she can slide Mika’s cum over her own clit and dip her fingers into herself, feeling an electric crawl thinking about the mix.

Once they are thoroughly satisfied, Cait unties Mika and flopped back against the bed. Mika curls next to her, resting her sweat-dampened head on Cait’s shoulder. Both women lay quiet for a few minutes as they regain their breath. Then Mika cranes her head enough to press a soft kiss against Cait’s red, warm cheek.

“I, Mika the Bard, have slain the Dungeon Mistress.”


	9. Asphyxiation (Maxson/Nobody)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter where kinktober and goretober are intertwined. ADDITIONAL WARNING: Contains descriptions of violence, gore, and death of a minor/unimportant character.

The synth begs for his life. They always do. He cries and chokes and screams in simulated agony that he’s human. They always say that too. He swears his allegiance to the Brotherhood. He calls to his former brothers and sisters, imploring them to recall the days spent training together. He insists they’ve known each other all their lives. It’s revolting how he recalls stolen memories of a man that is probably long dead.

Maxson thinks of Danse. His blood turns to flame.

In the middle of another futile plea, Maxson grabs the synth by the throat. He chokes the empty words out of it. He uses one hand, then two, squeezing and squeezing. Tighter, until the synth’s eyes roll upward and its tongue hangs out. He watches as its non-flesh turns red then purple-blue. 

It claws at Maxson’s hands and arms in desperation. Maxson lifts it from the ground and it kicks its legs violently. It is so weak and he is so strong. He is everything mankind can achieve on its own. This abomination has no reason to exist when perfection is already before it.

Maxson’s pulse thrums hot and fast and heavy as the synth gets weaker.

His grip grows even tighter. He crushes the gurgling noise from its collapsing trachea. Maxson feels the synthetic bones pop and slide and break beneath his thumbs. The synth goes quiet and still, but he’s not finished with it. 

His body feels hot and full of life. A real human life greater than every single one of these machines.

Maxson throws the body to the floor. He steps over to it, near its lifeless head. Lifting a foot, he presses the bottom of his boot against its skull. He forces it downward. The bone cracks loudly, followed by a sick crunching and squishing as the treads crush through the synth’s brain. Maxson stoops down and picks through the gore until he finds what he wants. The machine’s synth component. The macabre thing that proves it is unworthy of existence.

He holds the component up for his brothers and sisters to see. Some of them holler and cheer; they rain deserving praise upon him and it makes his heart swell with pride. He tells them how this synth had infiltrated their ranks and how they found it. He promises that any filthy machine that tries the same will receive the same fate, or worse. No mercy.

Maxson thinks of Danse and the fire inside him only grows.

Maxson tosses the component to a scribe that stands nearby. He walks across the floor, trailing the synth’s not-blood after every step. He chooses one of his brothers, it doesn’t matter which one. The man will feel honored to be allowed into his bed. He will spend the rest of the night expending his pent up adrenaline and rage on them; until the man falls asleep and Maxson returns to his pacing up and down the Prydwen’s steel halls. Because true satisfaction is always just out of his grasp.

And Maxson thinks of Danse.

 


	10. Guns (Wolfgang/Patrick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNING: Contains non-con/dub-con.

The barrel of the pistol presses tight against Patrick’s cheek. It’s so hard it will leave a bruise; one of many red and purple and green splotches now blooming across his skin. He can still smell the shots and the metal is still hot. His mother, Trudy, lies dead just a foot away. He couldn’t save her.

There are two reasons he’s on his knees in the diner. First, because he’s scared. He’s a coward. So, when Wolfgang told him to kneel he did, if only because he couldn’t run. He couldn’t run because he was shot in the leg. It’s also the second reason why he’s obediently prostrated before the raider. 

His left shin is throbbing; the bone is likely shattered. He’s bleeding and he’s worried the bullet hit an artery. Patrick almost hopes he bleeds out before Wolfgang puts a bullet through his skull.

“All you had to do was listen, Paddy.” Wolfgang says.

He slides the end of the pistol down Patrick’s face, along the young man’s jaw. Patrick is trembling, probably from a mix of fear and Jet withdrawal. The sight has Wolfgang all keyed up; it’s not the first time he’s thought about forcing the kid to his knees. He pushes the barrel up Patrick’s chin to his lips. He revels in the way Patrick’s breath speeds up through his nose as he panics.

“I told ya to be a man and pay off your own debts, but you went running to mommy. Now look at her.” Wolfgang uses his free hand to gesture at Trudy’s pale and still corpse.

Patrick can’t dare to look. He’s too scared of Wolfgang’s gun and too ashamed of himself. His eyes sting as he begins to cry.

“Yeah, you know whose fault it really is, huh?” Wolfgang grins.

He’s used to intimidating all kinds of these civilian losers. It’s Patrick’s luck that Wolfgang finds his fear especially attractive and gratifying, even if the younger man doesn’t feel quite so lucky. 

“Open your mouth.” Wolfgang demands, pressing forward hard against Patrick’s lips.

Patrick cries as his teeth and the gun cut into his lips. He opens his jaw, but his lips are already split and bleeding. Wolfgang shoves the barrel of the gun into Patrick’s mouth and Patrick starts to scream and whimper around it. He jerks back, but the broken bones in his leg shift, rocketing pain through his already fried nerves. 

Wolfgang grabs him by the throat with his left hand, holding the pistol firmly in his right. He cuts off Patrick’s air and makes him choke, then loosens his grip just enough to let him breathe again. 

How many warnings and mercies does Wolfgang have to give this guy before he finally gets it? Maybe the most merciful thing would be to separate his idiot brain from his cute body.

“You wanna die, asshole?” Wolfgang barks at him. He forces the barrel against Patrick’s temple.

“N-No! God, please! Don’t kill me!” Patrick cries out; his entire body is shaking.

“Then you better start  _ fucking listening. _ ” Wolfgang growls. “Open. Your. Fucking. Mouth.”

Patrick is practically hyperventilating. Tears are pouring from his eyes no matter how tightly he tries to shut them. His face is bright red and he’s sweating and choking on his own sobbing. He’s a mess of fear and sorrow.

It’s really turning Wolfgang on.

Wolfgang shoves and twists the gun against Patrick’s skin as a reminder. Patrick finally does as he’s told and pulls his mouth open. Wolfgang takes the barrel away from Patrick’s temple and shoves it back into Patrick’s mouth

Patrick goes tense and sobs around it. The weight of it holds tongue down, but on reflex he tries to work it away. He can taste the powder and oil and metal. Wolfgang shoves it in further, as far as it can go. Patrick whimpers and gags. His saliva pools and drips from the corner of his mouth.

“Careful, you might make it go off.” Wolfgang laughs darkly.

Patrick makes some weak and pathetic sound. He opens his eyes to look up at Wolfgang. It’s hard to see through the burning wetness of his tears.

Wolfgang finally draws the gun out. He admires how it glistens with Patrick’s spit. His other hand is still holding firm onto Patrick’s throat.

“Now,” Wolfgang says as he presses it back against Patrick’s temple, “Suck my dick.”

Patrick looks mortified. He wants to say something, or scream, or beg; in the end he doesn’t say anything because he realizes it would only make Wolfgang angry. Instead he swallows nervously, cringing at the flavor of blood and powder still on his tongue. Then he lifts his hands and reaches for Wolfgang’s belt.

“You’re finally learning.” Wolfgang coos, amused.

Patrick works open Wolfgang’s belt and fly. His hands are trembling. He’s never done this before, willingly or otherwise. He’s terrified that his inexperience will get him killed. He wonders, if he’d died first, would Wolfgang had made his mother do this? Patrick thinks about Trudy and he almost vomits. He has to force himself not to think of her body laying so close.

The circumstances obviously don’t bother Wolfgang. His cock is already hard when Patrick pulls it free. He moves the hand from Patrick’s throat, circling it around to the back of his head. He pulls Patrick’s head forward, giving some forceful encouragement. Keeping the gun pressed against his skull probably helps too.

Nervously, Patrick takes the head of Wolfgang’s cock into his mouth. The tip of it  has a thin, sticky bit of precum. It’s salty when it smears across Patrick’s tongue. Patrick doesn’t know what to do, so he lets his tongue swirl back and forth over the head. He traces the edges and textures of it slowly. He feels his heart flip in his chest when Wolfgang groans, hoping that’s a good sign.

But Wolfgang wants more. He forces Patrick further, making him swallow his cock in full. Patrick gags and his teeth scrape all along the shaft. Wolfgang shivers from the sensation.

“Don’t bite down or I’ll fucking kill you.” He warns. His throat is a bit dry.

Patrick doesn’t bite, but there’s not much else he can do. Wolfgang’s cock is so thick and so deep that he can’t even breathe. He’s choking and spasming. Wolfgang finally pulls back and Patrick gasps. His spit is thick and sticky from his gagging. It clings viscously to Wolfgang’s cock. It’s disgusting. Patrick wishes he could stop, but his desire to live is stronger. He doesn’t fight back when Wolfgang forces him back down.

Soon Wolfgang is fully fucking into Patrick’s mouth. He keeps a steady grip on the back of Patrick’s head. Holding him still, Wolfgang thrusts into Patrick’s mouth and throat. The thick coating of Patrick’s saliva and the scrape of his teeth are more than satisfying. When he comes, he makes sure he shoves his cock in hard and deep. He lets the reflex of Patrick’s suffocating throat milk his cum out.

Finally, he pulls away. Patrick gasps and starts coughing, but Wolfgang holds him up. He takes the gun away and admires the perfect, red imprint of the barrel on Patrick’s skin. Leaning down, Wolfgang brings his mouth close to Patrick’s ear.

“I’m your family now.” Wolfgang whispers, then he shoves Patrick to the floor so he lands right next to Trudy’s body.

Patrick suddenly wishes he were dead. 


	11. Gags/Orgasm Denial (Cait/Deacon)

Cait has determined that Deacon just can’t shut up. It’s impossible for him, at least when he’s around her. She can’t tell if that’s something she should find as adorable as it is annoying. It’s mostly annoying.

He flirts with her, so she ignores him, but he only flirts more. So she flirts back, but that only encourages him. She tells him to shut up and he talks more; grinning in that mischievous way that says he knows she sort of enjoys their banter.  She ignores his suggestion they take their never-ending conversation somewhere private. That doesn’t shut him up. She threatens to stomp his ‘particular bits’ under her boot. That only seems to fire him up more. The more he drinks the more he talks.

He gets nervous around her. It’s flattering.

Maybe she should give him more reasons to think she’s scary.

Cait finally acquiesces, taking him up to her room in the shitty hotel of a shitty little town. The suspicious carpet stains and drab water-damaged walls set the right ambiance for romance, don’t they? Cait tells Deacon to get on his knees and he obeys excitedly. He likes it when she bosses him around; that’s not even a secret among their friends anymore. 

She tells him to take off all of his clothes. He does. She keeps hers on. She uses what she can of his layers of clothing to tie his hands behind his back. The knots aren’t as tight as she would like them to be. Still, Deacon plays a good part in pretending they are. He could easily escape if he wanted to, but why would he want to? Cait’s giving him everything he’s been craving since the last time they did this. She knows, because his dick is obviously hard and he won’t shut up about it. 

Annoyed, Cait grabs Deacon’s discarded underwear, balls it up, and shoves it hard into his mouth. It must be a disgusting gag. She doesn’t know when he last washed his clothes. But Deacon writhes and groans and she can tell by the way he rolls his hips that he somehow finds the disgustingness erotic.

“You’re one sick boy.” Cait muses.

She lights a cigarette and looks down at him. He returns her stare, even as she exhales pointedly to blow smoke at his face. They both know her control of this situation is entirely dependant on his willingness to obey. For some reason the consensuality adds an edge rather than dulling it. She likes that he likes to give her control.

Stepping forward, Cait nudges her boot between his parted legs. She carefully runs the rough tip of it under Deacon’s sack. He groans around the gag and shifts his weight. She could really hurt him if she wanted to. He knows that.

She draws the toe of her boot along his cock. Rounding the tip, she gingerly drags the treads of her boot over the head of his cock. He rocks his hips upward to add more friction. Cait feels a surge of desire watching him rut for her.

Taking a long draw from her cigarette, Cait slides her foot under Deacon’s sack again. This time she nudges in a little further, so his tightening scrotum and ass rest on the top of her boot. She flicks ash from her cigarette and stares down at him; trying to play it cool though her own heart is fluttering in excitement.

“Go ahead, dog. Do like dogs do.” She demands.

Deacon barely hesitates. He thrusts against the rough and dirty texture of Cait’s boot. His cock slides up along her laces and he groans around his gag. He keeps his arms behind his back despite the looseness of the binds.

Cait scans over his red, sweating features; revelling in the way the flush of his face stretches down his neck and shoulders. The head of Deacon’s cock is leaving clear and wet imprints against the brown leather of her boots. She thinks he’s close to cumming.

She steps back swiftly. Deacon topples over onto the dirty carpet. He makes a pathetic whimpering noise that sends a pang of aching lust through Cait. She drops the cigarette and crushes it with her heel next to his head.

Leaving him to writhe on the floor, Cait walks over to the ancient and outdated living chair that sits near the end of the bed. She stops long enough to undo her belt and jeans. Sliding them down with her panties to just below her knees, Cait sits down. She brings her feet up to rest on the edge of the chair, bending and spreading her legs well enough to slip a hand between her thighs. 

Her fingers press between the already-swollen lips of her cunt. She’s wet as hell; her clit is hard and over-sensitive to even her own touch. Cait bites her bottom lip as she lets her middle finger slide along her clit, back and forth, adding pressure with each stroke.

She looks to Deacon and finds him staring back. He’s managed to get himself back to his knees, but he still holds his hands behind his back and the gag is still in place. His cock is still hard and red with need.

“Such a good boy you are.” Cait muses, her voice heavy and lustful.

Cait shifts her position. She slides her jeans down a little further and lifts her legs. Now Deacon can see more clearly as Caint slides her fingers into herself. She curls her middle fingers deep, fucking herself with strong and hard strokes to finally ease the ache of want in her cunt. 

Deacon looks so tense. He must be so uncomfortable. Seeing him so pathetic - knowing he’s practically hurting to fuck her - makes Cait cum easily. She could get off all night having him watch her so hungrily. 

It’s a tempting idea. 

But Cait decides to be kind. After all, Deacon has played his part very well. He deserves a reward. She beckons him over with her free hand. 

Deacon obeys. She reaches behind him to pull away the shirt she’d used to tie him; it was barely holding together anyway. She doesn’t remove his gag, however, and he makes no attempt to remove it himself.

“Fuck me.” Cait says, finally slipping her fingers away. 

She nearly laughs at how enthusiastic Deacon is to fill that command. He doesn’t bother with stripping off her boots or jeans, simply planting his hands on the armrests of the seat and sinking his cock into her fully. Cait lifts her legs, resting her ankles on his left shoulder so he can have more room. 

Deacon isn’t as careful or slow as he usually is. Normally he’s so attentive to the point it drives her crazy. But he’s earned the right to be a little selfish, she thinks. Not that she’s complaining; the way he snaps his hips and drives his cock into her so hard and fast draws one orgasm out into several. By the time he’s tensely pumping his cum into her cunt with erratic thrusts, she’s so heady and satisfied she feels like she could pass out right on that ratty chair.

Finally, Cait reaches up and pulls Deacon’s underwear from his mouth.

A moment passes where they only stare at each other, panting and winding down from their mutual orgasmic highs. And then Deacon speaks.

“I guess you really gave me the boot this time, huh?” He grins.

Cait groans, rolls her eyes, and shoves the gag back into his mouth.


	12. Handjob (Danse/Hancock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of erotic asphyxia as well. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It started with one stupid line:

“Hey, Codsworth, how ‘bout a Mr. Handy Job?”

Danse nearly shot Hancock because of it. Well, he wanted to. He wanted to the moment he saw the disgusting ghoul anyway. And since he’d assumed Hancock was mocking him, that only made his anger and disgust fester.

Rust Bucket. Tin Can. All names the ghoul laughed into Danse’s face, both because Danse still wore his Brotherhood livery proudly and because he knew _what_ Danse really was.

Danse didn’t know how Hancock found out; probably by nefarious means. It didn’t matter. He hated that Hancock knew so many intimate things about him. It made him feel violated.

But this time Hancock wasn’t name-calling. He was actually talking to the robot, Codsworth. Well, harassing him more like.

Danse almost felt sorry for Codsworth. He knew the robot’s programmed personality would act aghast at the suggestion, but the robot wasn’t capable of really feeling anything. (He tried not to think of what that implied for himself.) Still, nothing should have to be subjected to the unwarranted whims and suggestions of that filthy, waste-of-space ghoul.

“Mister Hancock, please…” Codsworth replied, his voice synthesizer sounding strained. “I am not _that_ type of service bot!”

“Yeah, but how hard could it be? Y’got that claw hand thing right?” Hancock slurred his words drunkenly and motioned one of his hands like an inebriated crab. “Built to please ‘n’ all that, yeah?”

“Uuugh…” Codsworth tried his best to ignore Hancock and went back to attempting to clean the uncleanable floors of the safehouse.

“Figures I get stuck with two rusting sticks in the mud,” Hancock complained.

He took another gulp of whichever bottle of liquor he’d managed to pilfer from who-knows-where. Danse watched as Hancock drained it then tossed the bottle off to the side. The glass hit the wall and shattered, sending shards all across the ancient linoleum.

“Pick it up,” Danse commanded firmly as Hancock tried to step around him.

“What?” Hancock bristled.

“Pick it up, _ghoul_ ,” Danse repeated, glaring at Hancock’s black eyes.

“Fuck off.” Hancock spat back. “S’not like this hellhole could get any worse.”

Hancock tried to push past Danse again. Enraged by the ghoul’s insolence, Danse grabbed him. He wrapped a hand around his disgusting throat and slammed him up against the wall.

Danse wasn’t in his power armor, but he didn’t need to be. He was stronger and larger than Hancock. Hancock choked and clawed his filthy decaying fingers at Danse’s hand and arm. His thin legs kicked out but even though they made contact they failed to make Danse budge.

It could have been the moment Danse finally rid the world of the degenerate. Would it really be so unforgivable? He knew that their leader supposedly had some purpose for Hancock, though Danse would never understand what.

He’d never understand how anyone could feel such an affection for something so sub-human; even himself.

If he killed Hancock it wouldn’t be unlike killing a feral or a supermutant. Being human once did not discount the fact he was now an abomination. Danse had killed monsters he’d once called friends. He shouldn’t have been expected to be so merciful toward those he already hated.

While Danse seriously considered the consequences of his potential justifiable murder, Hancock apparently had his own plans. To Danse’s eternal revulsion, Hancock began undoing his own pants as he dangled there, just barely able to breathe. When Danse’s enraged glare deepened, Hancock only grinned and showed all his rotting teeth. His breath stank of liquor and chems.

Hancock pulled out his dick and began stroking it. Danse choked him harder, ringing a violent gag from Hancock’s throat. Was the ghoul truly suicidal? No, Danse thought, it was a test. Hancock knew Danse wouldn’t kill him because he’d never be forgiven for doing so. Whether or not Hancock really found the act of being strangled erotic wasn’t the issue. He was directly challenging Danse’s resolve.

Danse didn’t take his eyes off Hancock’s face, as repulsive as it was. He wouldn’t allow the ghoul to make him falter. Even as Hancock stroked himself harder and gasped for what little air he could, Danse held firm. If he couldn’t kill Hancock, maybe he could get away with making the moron pass out. Who could blame him for wanting an hour or so of peace?

Apparently, Hancock did find the near-death experience titillating, as it wasn’t long before he was obviously orgasming into his hand. Danse had never wondered if ghouls were capable of ejaculating. He received an answer anyway when Hancock raised a palmful of his own sterile seed and weakly tried to smear it into Danse’s face. Danse dropped the ghoul suddenly, avoiding the touch. His stomach turned violently. It took all his self-control not to vomit.

Hancock just laughed, cackling frenetically on the floor. He shook his hand in the air, flinging his cum onto the linoleum then wiping what remained on the bottom of his boot.

Livid and feeling ill, Danse left the safehouse entirely. He needed some air. Behind him, he could hear Codsworth making a mournful noise.

“I am _not_ cleaning that up.”

Hancock only laughed louder.


	13. Titfuck (Rhys/Haylen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the rare "reverse titfuck". \o/ (Keep reading and you'll see what I mean...)

Haylen doesn’t have Rhys in the way she wants to have him. She knows she never will. She also knows he has needs; they both do. So, while the nature of their relationship will never be ideal, she will take what she can get. 

She’ll take whatever he’s willing to give.

Today is one of the off days where they're not busy. That doesn’t account for much since even on his mandatory leave days Rhys manages to somehow work anyway. Last time it was helping to wash dishes. Before he volunteered -  _ VOLUNTEERED  _ \- to do laundry. Even if it’s grunt work Rhys will do it if it’s for the Brotherhood, though he acts all crabby about it.

It’s very admirable that he cares so much about the cause, Haylen just wishes he’d let someone care for him too.

She manages to pull him away from one of the airport garages, insisting that the scribes had more than enough manpower to sort through the boxes of medical supplies that arrived that morning. Neither of them had much time off since Elder Maxson arrived and claimed the area as a base. Paladin Danse all but forced her to check on Rhys, to make sure he wasn’t burning himself out. She bit her tongue, wanting to suggest the paladin probably needed a little R&R himself. Besides, Rhys might not listen to her, but he will listen to Danse. She’ll take that excuse and run with it.

Haylen gets Rhys into a more or less abandoned part of the airport. It’s some lounge, or it was, but all the chairs and fixtures have been reappropriated elsewhere. Now it’s just a huge empty room on the second story, with a large set of windows taking up an entire wall. A lot of the glass is dirty and broken. Still, the view of the bay must have been nice when the airport was new. 

Rhys is immediately suspicious of her intentions. He’s not stupid. He probably already knew what she was up to when she first told him to come along. But he doesn’t leave, nor does he tell her to stop when she turns to him and starts stripping him from his uniform. 

So she’ll take what she can get.

He doesn’t move to undress her, so she does it herself. She reaches down to his groin and palms at his cock. She wants to kiss him but feels that would weirdly be too intimate. Instead, she presses her forehead against his neck and strokes him until his cock is full and hard.

Haylen asks him, politely, to lay on the floor. Rhys sighs like he’s terribly inconvenienced, but he does. Haylen considers riding him, but she realizes too late she’s brought no protection. Not wanting to take the risk of pregnancy, she changes plans. She straddles him backward, so she sits on his chest and can lean down to suck his cock. 

There’s a hope that he would return the favor, by touching her or maybe licking her, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Haylen is almost certain she’s the only girl he’s ever had sex with.

Rhys lifts his hands and runs them up her thighs. That simple touch makes her shiver, her skin warming and prickling with goosebumps. She takes his cock into her mouth with deep and long rhythm. She sinks it into her throat, until her nose meets his sack, before drawing back out again. She wants to feel his cock inside her and she curses herself for being so unprepared.

Haylen squeezes her legs and thighs around his chest almost instinctually. She sways her hips, thinking maybe she can entice him to act on his own. When she rolls her hips forward she can feel her slick cunt brush over his tight, hard pecs. That’s almost enough pressure to stimulate something pleasurable. 

She repeats the motion, grinding down a little harder. Rhys’ chest is so broad and well-defined it resists her squeezing and rocking enough to press her cunt and clit tight. She feels a wave of warmth spike through her. She leans back to grind against his tense chest some more, even enjoying the added texture of the wiry hair that spreads across his pecs and down over his abs to his cock. Stroking his cock in time with her wanton rutting, Haylen brings herself to orgasm just from the repeated ebb-and-flow of friction against her. She barely notices that Rhys came as well until she feels his hot cum flowing over her fingers.

“You’re making a mess,” Says Rhys, breathless. 

Haylen tries not to laugh. “Yeah, sorry.”

She climbs off of him and tries to find something to clean them both up with. Now that it’s over, she feels embarrassed. She wonders if Rhys feels ashamed too. She worries he might feel something worse. Rhys just stays quiet, even after they’re dressed and leave. 

What a mess.


	14. Role Reversal (Vadim/Travis)

Sometimes it’s still hard for Vadim to believe that Travis could be so brave. He’d always wanted the DJ to really find his voice, to be more confident, but he never predicted the change would be so extreme. Not that he would complain; that shift in personality literally saved his life once.

Of course, he continues to reap the benefits of change.

That’s apparent on nights like this one, when Travis invites himself into Vadim’s room. Vadim could be sleeping though Travis probably knows he’s not. If he was, would Travis still climb onto Vadim’s small cot bed? Would he still straddle Vadim’s waist and bend down to kiss his neck?

“So brave,” Vadim chuckles. His hands immediately find Travis’ thighs and he slides his palms over the unwashed denim. 

"Just, uh, checking to make sure you’re alright is all…” Travis says. 

Travis has worked hard to perfect his “smooth” radio personality, but sometimes his uncertainties still show. It’s adorable, Vadim thinks. He wants to treasure all of Travis’ faults and keep them selfishly to himself. He wants to be the only one allowed to Travis’ vulnerabilities anymore.

“Ah, my luck!” Vadim grins while Travis works his thin fingers and hands through his clothes. “Having such a hero come for me!”

Travis gave a snort of a laugh. “You said  _ co _ \- Nevermind...” 

Travis straightens his back. He looks down at Vadim with an exaggerated coyness. All of his movements seem calculated and practiced now. It’s amusing to Vadim; he likes to imagine Travis alone in his trailer practicing pin-up girl poses in the mirror. The thought makes Vadim’s chest flutter when he realizes Travis would be practicing for  _ him _ .

“Wow…” Vadim breathes out as he watches Travis pull off his own clothes.

“Do I make you nervous?” Travis asks in his best sultry tone.

No, Vadim thinks.

“Yes,” Vadim says.

Travis grins and rolls his hips, grinding his rear over Vadim’s lap slowly. Travis definitely makes a tantalizing show; by the time Travis is nude Vadim is already uncomfortably hard and still confined in his now too-hot clothes.

Travis bends down to kiss Vadim’s mouth, short and sweet. Then he climbs off the man. Vadim already misses the warm weight of his body.

“Well? Strip.” Travis demands; as well as Travis can demand anything at least.

When Travis turns his back, Vadim indulges in the view of Travis’ small, cute butt. Who wouldn’t? Vadim wants to reach out and give it a grope or a smack, but that might break what little control Travis has over his “cool guy” persona. Tonight Travis wants to think he’s the dominant one. Vadim is happy to oblige. 

Vadim quickly removes his clothes. As he does, Travis helps himself to Vadim’s dresser, knowing exactly where to go to get what they need. It’s a small bottle of cooking oil, which is so hilariously out of place in a sock drawer that it’s very obvious what it’s used for. Not that Vadim is ashamed of that at all; everyone has needs. Oh, to have lived in the days when there were entire stores dedicated to products for the sole purpose of fucking. 

Travis climbs back on top of Vadim. They kiss again, this time slower and purposeful. Travis sucks a little on Vadim’s bottom lip before pulling back. Vadim slides his hands along Travis’ legs again. He delights in the warmth of his skin and the texture of Travis’ thin body hair brushing against his palms. 

Travis tries to be quick with the oil, though it dribbles from his hand onto Vadim’s abdomen. He nearly apologizes but stops himself, probably not wanting to “break character”. Vadim nearly teases him about it, but Travis grabs his cock with his slick fingers and suddenly Vadim completely forgets what words are. A wave of heat flushes through him. Vadim bucks up into Travis’ hand. Travis grins.

“Needy,” Travis teases, his voice heavy and lustful.

“Fuck,” Vadim replies tensely.

Maybe Travis has more control over him than he thought.

Travis steadily guides the tip of Vadim’s cock into him, sitting back slowly until nearly the full length is sheathed inside. He groans and bites his lip. Vadim knows his cock is rather thick. He also knows Travis enjoys it, even if they sometimes get a little too rough in bed. Maybe the roughness is what Travis enjoys, because soon he’s riding Vadim’s cock hard and fast.

Vadim grips Travis’ hips, but he lets Travis set the pace. Vadim does his best to match it when he snaps his hips upward to help drive his cock deeper into Travis’ ass. From the noises he drives out of the younger man, it seems Travis is very appreciative of the effort. Travis’ fingers curl around his own cock, stroking himself as he rides Vadim. He’s looking down at Vadim with a lidded gaze and flushed pink face. Vadim feels like his heart is bursting with warmth; he doesn’t stand a chance at lasting very long.

When Vadim cums Travis continues rocking his hips, albeit slowly. He kisses Vadim, open and fully. It feels like every movement of his body is calculated to draw Vadim’s orgasm, to make him cum into Travis over and over. Vadim reaches to Travis’ cock enclosing his hand over Travis’ hand and helping to stroke him to completion too, leaving milky strands of cum all across Vadim’s abdomen.

After a moment, Travis finally pulls back from the kiss. He’s grinning.

“Um, hi.” Travis says, and just like that it seems his act is over.

Vadim doesn’t mind. After all, next time will be his turn to be the one in control. 


	15. Object Insertion (MacCready)

MacCready was certain he was alone. He’d arrived at the safepoint early, not on purpose though the convenience afforded him some privacy. He needed it, for what he was about to do.

Hey, a guy had urges, okay?

He’d already shrugged off most of his gear. The little dilapidated house he was waiting in was remote but secure, so he felt he could get comfortable.  _ Very _ comfortable. It wasn’t long after he’d unrolled his sleeping bag on the floor that he was sitting on it with his pants and underwear about his ankles. 

MacCready used some lotion he’d scavenged earlier to slick up his hand. He always liked jerking off with lotion. It made his cock feel nice; kept the skin nice and supple. Everyone liked to have a good-looking dick, right? Just in case you ever had to bring it out for company?

Okay, so maybe that was silly. Still, MacCready was enjoying his bit of self-indulgence. He had even, well, bigger plans too. It was kind of embarrassing, even to himself. Certainly he wasn’t the only person who did this sort of thing, but still…

MacCready paused his masturbation to reach into his backpack. He rifled through the various bits of junk within until he finally found what he wanted: An empty Nuka-Cola bottle. 

Oh jeez, it seemed even bigger than he remembered. MacCready felt his face go hot. So embarrassing, but the shame wasn’t going to deter him. He squeezed out some more lotion into his palm, then rubbed it over the neck of the bottle. He hesitated, then spread it further down to the wide body of it, just above the finned base. 

“Talk about big expectations…” MacCready said to himself, adding a soft laugh.

Then he swallowed nervously. He bit his lip and leaned backward, pressing his back against a wall. He spread his legs as much as he could and angled his hips up. Taking a deep breath, MacCready slipped the bottle down and pressed the smooth tip of it into his ass. He bit his lip harder. It hurt a bit, the hard glass and the slight burn of the lotion, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this sort of thing, either. 

Slowly, he worked the neck in down to the beginnings of the outward flare. He pulled it back then pushed it in, slowly fucking himself with it. With each inward push he shoved a little deeper. He toes curled and leg muscles tensed from the stretch. The steady rhythm and the fullness made him shiver; the spikes of pleasure made him want more.

Using one hand to guide the bottle, MacCready took the other back to his cock. He stroked himself with long and tight grip, squeezing each finger particularly hard over the ridge of the head. Sliding his fingers back down, he thumbed over the slit of his cockhead roughly. The action made him ache and groan loudly and he fucked the bottle into his ass even harder.

“Jesus Christ, MacCready!” Came a sudden shout from the door.

MacCready froze.

“What the fuck, man?!” The voice shouted again.

It was Mika, his friend and employer. Apparently she had arrived early too. She had her eyes covered and her face was red but her shoulders shook like she was trying not to laugh.

MacCready panicked. He threw his horrible bottle of shame aside. It shattered into about a hundred tiny pieces, the noise of which only made things worse.

Mika started cackling. She turned to leave out the front door, her head held back and barking loud and obnoxious laughter. MacCready felt like dying, as if the fire of embarrassment would completely turn him to ash. Or maybe his pounding heart would just explode.

Before she closed the door, Mika popped her head back in. 

“Hey, MacCready,” She grinned, winked, and cocked a finger-gun in his direction. “Zap that thirst!”

“GET OUT!” MacCready shrieked.


	16. Pegging (Piper/Danny)

If there is one thing Danny knows about Piper Wright it’s that she is incessantly passionate about, well, being right. It would be an annoying trait, if she weren’t usually telling the truth when it mattered. He’ll never forget the day he discovered the mayor really was a synth; the memory aches worse than the scarred wounds in his gut. He’s glad she forgave him for not believing her, though he’s not sure he deserved her forgiveness.

Then again, Piper often knows him better than he knows himself.

Danny’s not sure when their relationship shifted. He’d always considered Piper a friend, but doubted she thought the same. After the mayor shot him and shoved him off the stands, though, Piper rushed in with a fiery rage. He could hear her pounding and screaming at the mayor’s doors. He saw how she cried over him hours later as he lay in bed. She thought he was going to die. If it had not been for Doctor Sun’s quick work he would have. Danny wonders if his ghost had felt guilty for never telling her how he felt.

However it came about, Danny is glad they finally got together. He doesn’t know how he managed to go so long without waking up with her curled next to him. These days it’s hard for him to fall asleep without hearing the constant scratching of her pen against paper or the tapping of keys on her terminals and typewriters. 

He’s also glad that she’s been so accepting of his rather secret, shameful desires.

It’s a late night. Danny’s been on gate duty all day again. He hadn’t expected Piper to get home at all, since she was out covering some “big story” again. It was a pleasant surprise to see her walking through the gates; even more pleasant to see she was mostly unscathed despite being obviously tired. He knows she’s tough and capable, but he can’t help but feel a little worried every time she’s gone. 

His shift ends shortly, and Piper sticks around until it does. They walk home together, since Danny has moved out of the guard house and into Piper’s office-home. He’s secretly glad Nat is staying over with Nina Rodriguez. Apparently, so is Piper; the moment they reach their modest bed upstairs Piper is already pulling him into a kiss and tugging at his clothes. Danny returns the affection, kissing her openly as he pulls off her layers of travel garb. 

He wants to take his time feeling her body; it’s been too long since they’d last touched each other. But Piper is impatient when she knows exactly what she wants. She bites at his ear and tells him to get on his hands and knees. An electric spike of lust thrums through him. Danny does as he’s told.

It’s moments like this that make him ever thankful that Piper is so open-minded. In fact, he thinks she might be into it as much as he is; maybe even more so. He’d avoided telling her for so long after they started dating, fearing she would laugh. Well, she did laugh a little, but then she obliged him with gusto.

Danny likes getting fucked by women.

His blood is pumping hard and heavily through him while he anticipates just that. He can hear Piper getting ready; the clear jingle of the buckles and laces of her specially procured toys. There’s also the sound of a tin of petroleum jelly being opened. That’s a rare commodity, but Piper insists on having “connections” to obtain it. Danny never feels brave enough to ask if that connection is the same one that crafted her strap-on cock, and how she manages to meet such people in the first place.

Not that he’s complaining. 

Piper glides two of her fingers up the crack of his ass, smearing the jelly thickly against his hole. Danny’s hands curl in anticipation against the worn sheets of the mattress. She presses her fingers into him briefly. Now they’re both feeling impatient, and she knows it. Danny bites his lip when he feels her nudge the tip of her plastic cock against his ass.

“Hey Danny,” Piper coos as she gives a quick swat to his right ass cheek, “Open the gates.”

“God damn it, Piper.” Danny feels himself flush hot but he laughs.

Piper giggles too. “Couldn’t resist.”

Then Piper presses the dildo into Danny. He forgets all about being mad, though he’s still embarrassed if only because he loves the feeling of being stretched so much. Piper carefully works the cock into him, first with her hand and then with slow and calculated rocking of her hips. She’s gotten very good at fucking him. Soon her hips are flush with the mounds of his ass. She grips each cheek and squeezes. Danny groans softly as her nails dig into his skin. 

Piper draws the strap-on cock out then presses it back in. At first, she keeps it slow and steady. It’s driving Danny crazy, which is probably her goal. 

“Fuck…” Danny pants. “Do it harder, Piper.”

“Ask nicely,” Piper says; Danny can hear the lilt of amusement in her tone.

“ _ Please _ , damn it!” Danny begs.

“Alright, alright,” Piper laughs.

She begins fucking him harder as asked. Danny shifts his body, raising his ass higher, so she can fuck him deeper. He buries his face in his arms to muffle the sound of his pleasured cries. The walls here may be concrete, but they aren’t wholly solid; last thing he wants is to give the guys on the guard more reasons to tease him about his relationship. 

That worry is quickly pushed out of mind when Piper slides a hand down between them. Her fingers cup and squeeze at his balls. His sack is already taut and full. The pressure of her massage is more than enough to send Danny over the edge. He lifts his head, arching his spine. He reaches down to cup his hand over hers, adding to the near-painful pressure. Then he pulls both of their hands away. 

He comes, and he’s loud, shooting thick jets of cum across the sheets. Piper pumps her strap-on cock into him a few more times as he twitches. Danny reaches to his cock to stroke the last pent-up seed from within; he’d avoided masturbating, so he could savor this release.

After a few moments, Piper finally pulls the cock out of Danny. She stays close however, pressing her forehead against Danny’s spine.

“Shit,” She sighs, “Probably should’ve put down a towel or something. Now the bed’s all gross again.”

Danny nods, trying not to laugh. “Whoops. Yeah, you’re right.” 

Piper’s always right. 


End file.
